


Migrations

by PhoenixFalls



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Fantasy, Femslash, Melancholy, OrgASM Piece, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:43:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixFalls/pseuds/PhoenixFalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A wandering magician passes through town; Winter gives her a place to sleep for the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Migrations

**Author's Note:**

> This is a smutty excerpt from an original WIP; I set completing this scene as one of my goals for Circlet Press' [OrgASM](http://orgasm-circlet.livejournal.com/) (Organized Advanced Smut-writing Month) challenge, and promised I'd make it available for public consumption if it stood alone reasonably well, which I think it does.

As soon as Crane disappeared up the stairs with a candle, Winter set to, covering the remains of the beans and bread, banking the fire, securing the shutters against the wind off the lake. She was willing to go to bed with Crane — more than willing, really — but found herself moving more and more slowly. _Stop being an idiot. She’s made it clear she wants you._ But in the face of the scorching look the magician had left her with, Winter suddenly felt young and very inexperienced.

_And short. Damn stork of a magician._

Winter snorted to herself.

_Or crane, rather._

Still, there was only so much that needed to be done, and soon enough she found herself standing at the top of the stairs. Where she was confronted with a completely naked magician sprawled across her bed under more of those magical golden lights.

_Well fuck me._

Crane smirked up at her. “Like something you see?”

Winter had no words. Crane was exquisite, all long limbs and smooth skin, slender and soft all over, the way no one in West Thumb could afford to be. Winter had been pleased, six or seven years before, when she had reached her full (if not very impressive) height and began putting muscles in her arms, her shoulders, her back; but the visible evidence of the life of leisure Crane must have known was unbelievably arousing. The magician was like that southern wind that kicked up on the occasional autumn’s eve, bringing a heavy, sweet scent that Jay had once told Winter was from a vine called honeysuckle — foreign, exotic, whispering of lands Winter had never seen, probably would never see.

Winter yearned, mouth dry and chest aching, for just a moment, wishing for something different, some change to the decades she already saw stretching out in front of her, centered on this land, this lake, this little tiny town where she knew everyone and everyone knew her. Then she put the wish away, as she always did, to focus on the present.

And it was really quite a nice present, after all, complete with gorgeous naked magicians inexplicably in her bed. Gorgeous naked magicians now wearing a disconcertingly intent expression, curiosity clear in dark eyes. _That won’t do,_ Winter thought, and after a gear-shifting blink she smiled brightly and started to undress.

“Absolutely.”

Crane tilted her head to the side, still more contemplative than Winter wanted, so she shucked the rest of her clothing quickly and jumped into the bed, landing with less grace than she would have liked but right on target, straddling Crane’s narrow hips. Crane, of course, did nothing so inelegant as let out an “Oof!”, but she did lose the considering expression in favor of something halfway pained and halfway amused. Winter crinkled her nose in acknowledgment, then just as abruptly as she had jumped she pressed herself down atop Crane’s chest, wound her fingers through short hair, and kissed her.

Winter prided herself on being a good kisser. She had kissed pretty much everyone in West Thumb between the ages of fifteen and forty — a grand total of eight people — and she was definitely in the top three. Petal was too hesitant, Larch was too wet, Crystal made too much noise, Robin just never seemed to be enjoying himself. Clay, unsurprisingly, was too aggressive, but Winter was not thinking about Clay right now. Finch was fantastic, better than Winter by far, but Winter shouldn’t think about Finch either, because then she’d think about how that ended and that was far too sad. But Crane. . . Crane kissed like Daisy sailed, like Hawthorn forged, deft and assured, effortlessly in command. Winter might have initiated the kiss, was still literally on top for it, but it was Crane who led it, who teased with soft lips and compelled with slick tongue.

Winter had to pull away, dizzy as all the blood drained from her head and pooled between her legs.

Crane grinned up at her. “Need a moment?”

Winter shifted a little to the side, then ground down on Crane’s hip bone. “What I need,” she muttered, “is one of your hands.”

Crane lifted a single eyebrow. “A hand, eh?” She lifted her left hand and pondered it a moment, then, smirking, brushed her fingers across Winter’s parted mouth.

Winter didn’t hesitate, licked Crane’s index finger to draw it inside her mouth then bit down, nearly hard enough to draw blood.

Crane’s eyes widened briefly in surprise, then she grinned and bucked her hips up against Winter roughly, her other hand reaching around Winter’s backside to pull her into a delicious slide across flesh moist with a bit of sweat and Winter’s own lubrication. “Oh my. You are a saucy one.”

Winter snorted, letting Crane’s finger fall free. “I’m not known for my patience.”

“Well I am afraid that I have no desire to let you set the pace.” And with that Crane grabbed Winter’s hips with both hands and flipped them. Winter’s back hit the mattress and she let out a surprised — but pleased — grunt.

Crane kissed Winter again, tangling their legs so that Winter could continue to rut up against Crane’s hip while Crane herself could grind down on Winter’s thigh. She was impossibly hot and wet against Winter’s exertion-warmed skin, and Winter was pretty sure she could feel Crane’s heartbeat in the throbbing flesh that parted her slippery curls. Her hands were still in Crane’s hair, forgotten; she moved them down and around until they found Crane’s chest, her nipples protruding from the near-flat planes. Winter caressed the pebbled flesh lightly, felt Crane shiver against her.

The only sounds for some time were the brush of flesh against flesh and breaths panted out around hungry kisses, and the attic room became redolent with the scents of sex and sweat. Winter felt her peak building, faster than it did with Finch, with Crystal, with those people, beloved or not, that she had known her whole life. She bit her lip, straining to hold back; Crane felt her tension and slid a hand at last in between their bodies. The instant her finger swirled roughly around Winter’s clit, Winter groaned and spasmed around her, eyes screwing closed as she reached her climax and fell precipitously over the edge. She reopened her eyes a moment later, still shuddering, to find Crane watching her breathlessly. Their eyes locked, and the magician bore down fiercely against Winter, thrusting forward one last time as her own climax crested over her. She held Winter’s gaze throughout and didn’t make a sound, the lines in her face and shoulders beautifully taut, and Winter knew she would hold this memory close long after the magician had moved on, out again into the wider world.

After a time their breathing slowed, and Crane slid off Winter to curl around her side. Winter grabbed the magician’s hand and suckled her own slick, her thoughts on those distant nights; Crane lifted her other hand to stroke Winter’s cheek. Both were perhaps more solemn than the occasion called for.


End file.
